


The Future Unseen

by Ael_tRlailiiu



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, because pirates, you know this doesn't have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael_tRlailiiu/pseuds/Ael_tRlailiiu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milah leaves home and finds her place amid the crew of the _Jolly Roger_. </p><p>She gets a lot of negative response from the fandom, and I wanted to explore her reasons and her mindset on leaving, and Killian's response to her. They were neither of them exactly upstanding people at that point, I think, but at the same time they thought the world of each other, so this came as something of a challenge to write. (I posted the first part of this a while ago and deleted it b/c I didn't think I was going to finish it. Then I did.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future Unseen

“Back at last? Poor timing, love, we're just about to depart.” Captain Jones considered her with a smile.

“I know.” Milah settled opposite him. The tavern lay all but deserted at this early hour. Perhaps the others had gone to ready the ship. The keeper brought her a mug without asking. She tasted it, grimaced, and set it down. “You never said what brought you here. We don't get many ships from far-off in these parts.”

“Noticed that. Quiet little place you've got here.” He leaned his elbows on the table and looked at her as if trying to divine her thoughts. “It was a chancy wind took us this far north. Thought we could use a day or two ashore.”

“And you're still here a week later.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Certainly isn't because of the beer. Might be persuaded to delay a bit yet.”

“That's not why I'm here. Entirely.” She had already made that decision, and the whole village could think her a harlot if they wanted to. Nothing could get worse than it already was. She ought to have _something_ she wanted.

“Not entirely?” He gave her a bemused look. “Why, then?”

“I want to go with you.” The silence stretched long enough that she braced herself for mockery.

Instead he said again, “Why?”

“Because I can see my whole future here, and every single day of it looks just like this one.” She would look after the house, the boy, and the sheep. Once a week she would come to town, because it was too far for Rumple to walk easily, and for an hour escape the clucks and pitying glances of luckier women. Bitter silence would follow bitter words, and day pile onto day with nothing else to ever look for. She felt like something in a snare. “I don't care where I go, but I can't stay here any longer. I'll go mad.”

“We're not in the habit of taking passengers. At least, not willing ones.”

“Not as a passenger. I'm not afraid of work.” She also didn't have any money, but no need to mention that.

Captain Jones sat back, new curiosity veiling the plain invitation in those forget-me-not eyes. “And what might you bring to this crew that would earn your keep? I imagine swordsmanship is out of the question.”

“I've never been on a ship.” She saw no reason not to admit that. “And I certainly hope you've no call for weaving. I'll do anything else. I can learn.” Something in that made him smile. Her heart thumped despite her resolve to keep this businesslike. She still couldn't tell his age. Not much older than herself, if at all.

“We are engaged in dangerous business. Not afraid, then?”

“No. I'm not.” She had watched crews come and go for years, seen brawlers and braggarts, men down on their luck, desperate or defiant. This lot were confident with others and easy among themselves, and their ship looked well-kept. “The only thing I fear is dying here, three miles from where I was born, in a town that stinks of sheep.” 

“I seem to recall you have a... well, a creature of some sort that calls itself your husband.”

She looked him in the eyes and said, “Funny, I don't remember that.” Run away home if you want to, Rumple. I'm done with trying for your sake.

“I can see how you might forget.” Jones raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps we can accommodate each other. Gentlemen,” he said as two of the sailors entered. “Allow me to introduce the newest member of our doughty crew.”

The first mate blinked twice and looked dubious. “Um. Captain?”

“Mr. Avery, I'm sure you heard me.” Jones stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we go?”

“Yes.” Just like that? She felt light enough to fly.

People noticed her, of course, on their way to the docks. She had not expected any of them to care, much less for anyone to go and find Rumplestiltskin. Word filtered down the dock to the ship that he was on his way. Captain Jones looked a question at her.

Milah shook her head. “I don't want to talk to him.” She hadn't thought as far as to come up with an explanation for her departure. She did not want a tearful scene. Just let me go. If you won't, at least let _me_ try.

“Then you sha'n't.”

One of the sailors—Eddie, she remembered him from the other night—helped her below. She listened to the exchange and rolled her eyes, and then her husband's uneven steps faded away down the dock. Once he was away, she found her way back up to the deck.

“He thinks you're kidnapping me.”

“Appears so. Should you change your mind at the next port, you'll have to walk home. But your reputation will be intact, more or less. Not that he seemed much concerned about you facing a fate worse than death.” Killian managed to look amused and annoyed at the same time.

“Is that what I'm doing, then?” Milah propped a hand on her hip. Of course Rumple wouldn't risk himself to save her, or anyone else, or anything. She ought to know that by now. At least it meant he would be there for Bae.

“Have never found that sort of thing necessary.” He winked. “Find your sea legs today, sailor. Foggy will take you in hand.”

Her feeling of being off-balance as he walked away had nothing to do with the ship's motion. She looked around to find one of the sailors nearby, a stocky, older man with tawny skin and a fringe of graying hair around his bald spot. The ship felt busy but quiet. Everyone went about tasks they had undertaken a thousand times before, with little need for conversation. She felt their curious glances, even from the ones she had met before.

“Feng Li,” the man introduced himself. “They call me Foggy. I'm the doctor. I also keep the articles.”

“The what? I'm Milah.” She put out a hand.

“Well, you do have a bit to learn. Welcome aboard, I suppose.” He shook her hand, but looked dubious. “There are those who think it's bad luck to have a woman on board.”

“I expect most people think sighting this ship is bad luck. Perhaps we'll cancel each other out.”

“I suppose we'll see.”

The day passed in a blur of new words, new things, new people, an entire ocean's worth of _new._ She couldn't complain about that.

They kept the shore in sight to port, a shadow that vanished with nightfall. Determined to make herself useful, Milah watched everything and asked questions of whoever held still for it, and was pleased to sense Foggy's reservations diminish. She climbed, hauled, carried, cleaned, and fell into her bunk shaking with exhaustion. The motion and the strangeness of the sounds around her kept sleep away for some time—men's voices, the rattle of equipment, creak of wood, the _shush_ of water against the hull. Her little hearth and bed were far away already, farther than she had ever been before.

_Good night, Mama. Good night, Bae._

At least try. She might fail, but she must try.

They stopped two days later in another town. The place wasn't much to look at, but beyond it rose mountains she had not seen before. Milah couldn't stop staring at them. She jumped at the captain's voice behind her.

“Will you be staying, then? Or leaving us here? Last chance, unless you're quite good at swimming.”

“I—no.” She turned. What could she say if she went home now? “At least, I don't want to leave. I should like to find some trousers, however. This skirt is hell to climb in.” She had not seen much of him since their departure, had not spoken to him alone this whole time. She was not sure what to make of that, but reasoned that she must be doing well enough, if he hadn't decided to put her off the ship.

“A concession to practicality I suppose we must allow.” He glanced at the mountains, then back at her. “Different enough for you yet?”

“It's a start. I'm not homesick, if that's your concern.” Or seasick, fortunately.

He lingered for a moment. “Milah. That's an odd name.”

“No more odd than yours. Captain.”

“It's quite common in less godforsaken parts of the world.”

“Is it? You've never said what land you hail from. What sort of people they are, what kings, what gods.”

“Doesn't matter. It's far from here, and the only thing waiting for me there is a hanging, so I can't say that I miss the place. As for the rest of it—kings are kings, and sailors have only one god, wherever they were born.” He gave her a crooked smile and moved on.

Milah put her curiosity aside once ashore, giddy with freedom. No one in this town knew her name or her husband's. If they looked askance at a woman out in company with the sailors, she had no reason to care. She traded her earrings for clothes better suited to her new work—or at least they would be once she was done taking them in—and was issued a knife from the ship's stores.

“I can't very well have my crew wandering about unarmed,” Killian pointed out. “Poor form.”

My crew. Before they put out in the morning, Foggy took her below to his little cubby of an infirmary. The room smelled of herbs. From a locked box he produced a heavy sheet of paper, its folds worn thin.

“Can you read?”

“Of course I can read. We're _poor_ , we're not ogres.” Milah had been surprised to find books on board. She read the ship's articles with what she hoped was appropriate care. They seemed sensible enough for the most part. Keep disputes off the ship, no shirking... take action against our common foe wherever they present themselves. “And which foe would this be?”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Therein lies the tale. This ship, she's not quite like others. We do things a bit different from the rest.” He mixed up a salve for her blisters and told her how the _Jolly Roger_ had come to be, and the private war of Killian Jones.

“It _flew_. This ship.” She looked sidelong at the planks.

“She did.”

“I would have liked to see that.”

“Won't happen again. Some things oughtn't to be.”

“And Captain Jones has been leading you since.”

He nodded. “Knows what he's about. Best navigator in the fleet, back in the day. Else none of us would be here.”

“You don't mind the changes? Being pirates now?”

Foggy shrugged, but the wrinkles around his eyes deepened as if at some memory. “Liam was a good man. They shouldn't have done what they did. As for me, well, the work's the same, and the pay is better. I'll give it a few more years yet before I settle ashore.”

She signed her name. “Not worried about bad luck now?”

“We all worry about bad luck.” He shook his head. “It's a hobby, like wood-carving. I'll grant that you're a game one. We'll see soon enough.”

“Where are we bound for, now?”

“Hunting.”

No doubt that accounted for the mood of anticipation among the crew. The _Jolly Roger_ set out under a westerly wind. Later that morning, Milah went aloft to adjust a sail, looked around and saw no land. The sky swelled blue above her, the sea green-gray below, the sails full and bright under the sun. She laughed.

Time passed. They spent three dull days becalmed and two miserable ones under steady rain. Milah begged paper, pen and ink from assorted others of the crew and spent the time in drawing – the ship, her crewmates, remembered things from a life that already seemed to belong to someone else. She had not sketched often in years, not since Baelfire had started walking (and climbing, and opening, and falling down things). The pen felt awkward in her hand at first, but she kept after it.

A week out, they spotted a distant trio of ships, but passed them by as too risky. They were coming at last into more populated waters, far from the Enchanted Forest. Whether it was the endless expanse that replaced the cottage walls, or the number of things to learn, or the air itself, she couldn't say, but Milah felt different. She missed the touch of brown curls against her hand every night, and a little bit of privacy, but nothing else from her old life.

The others stopped watching so closely to make sure she did things right. Half of them were from the original crew and had little to say about the pasts they had left behind. The newer ones swore themselves victims of unjust persecution, or told about crimes of passion and thundering hordes of pursuers. In truth nearly all of them had fled either hardship or a noose and found their way to the sea. Crispin had been an apprentice horse thief; short-tempered Theo had struck his master at the bakery; Oliver would only say “the bastard deserved it.”

Killian, when she saw him, looked contented as a cat with his domain, but he kept his distance. Milah did not know what to make of that. She had what she had asked for.

On a fair afternoon three weeks after they set out, the lookout cried alert.

“Suppose you've not seen much blood, Miss,” Eddie said. He stood beside Milah at the rail as she studied the distant ship.

“Suppose you've never been around livestock, then.” Or spent much time around women, for that matter. He was the only member of the crew even younger than herself.

“Can't say that I have.” He grinned. “Merchantman, looks like. Ones that big usually go in convoy. Got blown off course, maybe, or lost her escort in that storm.”

Avery paused behind them. “They likely won't put up a fight, but if they do – stay out of it. A week of training with a knife won't do any good if this gets hot.”

“Aye,” Milah conceded with a scowl. It wasn't that she wanted to, exactly. She had never hurt anyone in her life. But she wanted to be useful.

“You'll have your chance soon enough.” He resumed his restless circuit.

“Second thoughts?” Eddie asked.

“No.”

“So what made you decide on this life? Captain's pretty eyes aside.”

Those eyes had, as far as she could tell, not spent much time at all on her since they embarked. She said, “You all do whatever you want to and don't care what anyone says. That's all I wanted.” Not quite all in truth, but she would take it and be grateful for the chance.

The _Sunflower_ was large but ungainly in comparison to the _Jolly Roger_ , and she had no guns of her own. Once the _Jolly Roger_ ran up her true flag, three shots sufficed to bring her quarry to heel. A florid, jowly man with prematurely white hair, Captain Gilbert appeared resigned as he negotiated their surrender.

“Just leave us enough to make port with, if you please. We don't want any trouble.”

Killian grinned. “We can provide it gratis. Liven up your dull days.” The crew whooped and jeered and made enough noise for three times their number.

“Your generosity is well-known,” Gilbert said. “But not necessary today.”

Grapples flew, drawing the ships snug against one another. The _Sunflower's_ crew grumbled as they were herded together at the bow, but quietly – for the most part. Two of the sailors muttered aloud about “scum of the earth.” Four of Killian's men grabbed hold and heaved them over the side. From the water they made their apologies as the ships drifted away.

Gilbert grimaced at the increasingly faint and desperate voices. “I think they've learned their lesson.”

“What, you want them back?” Killian lounged at ease at the aft rail, where he could keep an eye on Gilbert and watch the work. “Insubordination rots from within. I'm doing you a damned favor.”

“Point is taken, captain. However.” He watched with a forlorn expression as the _Jolly Roger_ 's crew stripped his ship of everything useful.

“Only because I'm in a good mood. Throw them a rope, lads.”

Milah grinned and hefted another cask. She found herself as busy as she could have wanted, even after they had left the other vessel far behind.

Two hours later, “How goes the tally?” Killian inquired.

“Captain. It was going well until a moment ago.” Milah realized how that must sound and grimaced. “Which is to say that I don't know what much of this is, so I've no idea how to count it.” Damn Avery anyway. When she'd admitted to knowing something about sums – and who did he _think_ had done all the marketing? Rumple had a fine way with words when he wanted, but no head for numbers – Avery's eyes had lit up. She had spent the her time since that taking inventory of the haul. Some of it was straightforward, useful stores and coin, even if she didn't recognize the script on the coins. “Pepper. These are cloves. The rest I've no idea.” Her back hurt from shifting sacks and casks and sealed ceramic jars of... stuff around the tight storage deck.

“Then let's take a look.” Killian surveyed the stacks. “How have you found a pirate's life thus far?”

“I expected it to be bloodier,” she said, moving the lamp to one side.

“Few folk are anxious to die for another man's money, for a barrel of rum or sack of spice, or even gold and jewels. This business is not unlike raising sheep. Best if they're fit to bear wool afterward.”

Milah snorted. She hadn't thought about sheep in days. “Here. I found this.” She unearthed the wooden case of samples and set it atop a barrel. It held a dozen drawers, each with a leather pouch or stoppered bottle tucked inside. Killian's rings gleamed in the lamplight as he sorted through them.

“Ginseng. Foggy will want that.”

They had not been alone since Milah came on board the ship. He could easily have sent someone else to see how her work was going. Why now and not before? Maybe just the time that had passed. If he wanted a sign from her, well; she hadn't changed her mind. She moved closer.

Killian cocked an eyebrow at her. “Mustard, aniseed.”

She nodded. “Those I know.” They hadn't been frequent visitors to her kitchen, but at least she knew the names. At home, their seasonings had been whatever herbs she could find in the fields. She would never do that again.

Killian handed her an open pouch. “Saffron. Careful, that's worth everything else put together.”

She sniffed the reddish tufts and found their scent musty. “Ugh.”

“No accounting for tastes. Cinnamon.”

She listened, nodded, and found herself paying more attention to his hands than his words even as she noted down the case's contents.

“Nutmeg.” He glanced at her with a hint of a smile, and scratched the rough pod with his thumbnail to release its scent.

“I like that one.” She closed in another few inches. Spices and leather mingled with the fainter scent of lamp oil in the stuffy hold.

“Do you now.” His voice dropped to a murmur. The lamp cast her shadow half across him, bright and dark and wholly arousing.

“I like this life.”

“I thought you might. Doing well at it. You are an unusual woman. Coriander.” He opened the last jar, this one full of small round seeds. “Considered by some an aphrodisiac.”

She plucked up a seed and rolled it between her fingertips. It smelled faintly sweet. “Want to test that?”

“Not necessary.”

“Good.” She leaned in, brushed her lips over his and felt the shock travel down into her core. She repeated the motion.

One of his hands moved to her hair. “I had begun to think you were only looking for passage to far-off lands after all.”

“I'm still learning the rules.” She thought she had it figured out, that aboard his own ship, he would not make any move she might construe as pressure. That the crew had to come before anything else. That they had to trust her, to know that she was not on board as an ornament. Milah felt delightfully brazen as she put her back to the pile of barrels, hooked her fingers under his belt and pulled him nearer. They were nearly the same height. “Though I might warn you, I have had little experience with pleasing men.”

“And less with being pleased, I warrant. A tragic state of affairs I should be honored to remedy. Trust me to chart us a course?” He cupped his hands around the back of her neck, stroked a thumb down her neck just below her ear.

“I do.” She relaxed into his touch, the heat of his mouth against hers. She asked for more this time and found herself well answered—so well that she found herself wondering just how uncomfortable a pile of pepper sacks would be, and willing to test the matter—until someone tapped at the hatch frame.

“Whatever it is had better be worth your life,” Killian said without glancing that direction. Milah tried not to laugh.

“Sail astern, sir,” Oliver called down. “Fast.”

“Bloody hell.” Killian leaned his forehead against hers, then backed away. “All the oceans of the world to sail in, it would have to be now.”

“I suppose it would.” Milah straightened her hair and tucked her shirt back in. “Um.”

“Perhaps another time.”

She followed him up to the deck. The sails belonged to two ships, both larger than the _Jolly Roger_. Milah strained her eyes, but could make out nothing. Beside her, Killian made a thoughtful sound and handed her the spyglass. Surprised and mindful of the instrument's value, she took it carefully and swung it until she found one of the distant shapes again. Details came clear of a larger ship than she had ever seen, and the device on its flag.

“More sheep for shearing?” she asked.

“Some days there is mutton on the table.” He headed forward, snapping orders.

Milah frowned at the ships. “Are we going to try to take them?” she asked Oliver.

“Other way around. They're after us.”

“So we're trying to get away?”

He spat over the side. “Captain's picking his spot, is all. Don't you worry about it, miss.”

“I won't, then.”

He glanced at her, amused and curious.

“If you have something to say, go ahead and say it.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Nah. We all kinda figured. Just never seen anyone catch Captain's eye for more than a few hours.”

The chase took a day and a half and led them through a string of tiny islands. No one slept much. Their pursuers were identified as the frigates _Crown of Stars_ and _Silver Fleece_. The second was too eager, or too incautious, and fell afoul of the currents around one of the islands. The _Jolly Roger_ 's shallower draft made it through with only some scrapes.

The _Crown_ proved more canny and more determined, and gained ground over the next hour. Conversation aboard the _Jolly Roger_ died away to the bare minimum. Killian stayed at the wheel and gave an occasional terse order. A single cannon on the _Crown_ fired twice and missed twice, getting the range.

“They've got powder to waste,” Oliver said. “Bastards. We don't. Wait 'til they get closer.”

“Um.” She glanced down at the wood on which they were standing. It looked frail as a child's raft of woven reeds.

Oliver patted the rail. “Sturdier than you might think. Or they think.”

For all the long waiting, it happened quickly. Up close the frigate looked enormous. The _Jolly Roger_ wheeled and fired. Nothing had prepared Milah for the noise of the cannons as they spoke in unison. Chain shot took down some of the _Crown_ 's sails as she came about, bringing her own guns to bear on the smaller ship. Yells—screams—cracking wood. Milah had her knife and a hatchet, and no position out of the way this time. She crouched near the starboard bow rail with her heart pounding, waiting in case a boat came around from the far side. Farther aft others kept watch on their own stretches of rail, but most of the crew was busy on the port side. Arrows flew from the _Crown_ , skittered off into the sea, struck wood or flesh.

Milah heard oars clatter. A hook came up over the side and pulled taut. She cut the rope and ducked back as more flew up from the boat below. The rest of the fight disappeared from her awareness. A hand came up and grasped the rail. She swung the hatchet. The uniformed figure swiped at her once with his sword, then chose to save his fingers and dropped away.

The _Jolly Roger_ lurched. Someone threw a torch across the gap between the ships. It guttered and rolled across the deck. Milah knocked it overboard and stamped out the sparks before a coil of rope could catch fire. She looked aft and saw Oliver down, a feathered shaft in his throat.

Some of the _Crown_ 's sailors had made it across to the _Jolly Roger_ 's bow. A cannon fired—she wasn't sure which ship it came from. Her eyes watered from drifting smoke. She cut another rope and looked for Killian. All in black, he was easy to find in the fray. He had crossed to the other ship with a couple of the others, cutting down gunners in the center of a hard press amidships. Behind him, she saw Avery fall.

“Hell.” Milah glanced over the side. The boat of attackers had moved away. She picked up Oliver's cutlass and crossed to the opposite rail. The ships pitched toward and away from each other with every wave. The gap narrowed as men hauled on the grapples. She climbed up onto the rail and did not give herself time to think before she jumped, holding the sword well away from her body. She slipped and landed hard on her left side. She scrambled to her feet, the weapon an unfamiliar weight in her hands.

She took one of them from behind, a swipe across the back of his knees, and then was face to face with another. His sword went up to strike. She brought hers up and across on instinct. Human innards didn't look much from different from a sheep's. She caught one startled look from Killian as he turned, thinking her another attacker.

“Get him back over,” he said. He whipped his blade back into position to block an incoming sword. “We'll hold. Go!”

Milah looked around to find that two of the others had followed her, and the boarding party was no longer beset from all sides. She nodded, breathless, and helped the mate to his feet. The wound in his leg made the trip back across the gap a chancy one. By the time she delivered him to Foggy, the guns had stopped firing. She climbed onto the rail again—with one hand on a line that was still attached to something this time—and watched as the last of the _Crown_ 's surviving sailors were rounded up, two dozen sullen, blue-jacketed figures. One of those had gold fringe attached, and its wearer a different sort of hat.

Killian looked over the wreckage for a leisurely few moments before he turned. “I see it's _Captain_ FitzHugh now. Should I congratulate you on the promotion?”

“You're a deserter and a thief, Jones.”

“Not even a particle of nostalgia for the old days, I see.”

“I'm looking forward to seeing you hanged, not quite the same thing.”

“In that case, I have some dreadfully bad news for you.”

FitzHugh snorted. “Don't bluff, it's unbecoming. You could provision that little boat off my ransom for years.”

“And vice versa?” Killian smiled. “What's the reward up to?”

“Twelve.”

“That's not a reward, it's a damned insult. Though I think it will soon be higher.” He stepped back and surveyed the line of bound sailors, then strolled their length. “You. You.” He picked out six; they were summarily tossed into one of the boats, still bound. “I can tell a man who's been press-ganged. If I ever see you wearing this uniform again, I shan't be so lenient.” He stopped before the captain again, sword raised. “Those who chose the king's service can fulfill their oaths.”

FitzHugh drew a breath to protest; he never finished it. One who hadn't been watching closely might have called it cold-blooded. Milah had been watching closely. A brief, desperate second battle followed as the sailors tried to resist their fate. The water around the ship turned red, then foamy as sharks gathered and fought one another.

The half dozen of the _Crown_ 's men who had been spared were given a single knife with which to free themselves, pointed toward land, and set adrift. Milah wondered if they would reach the shore. She worked with the rest of them to strip the frigate of everything useful – powder and shot being the first priority, then ropes and other supplies, then the valuables. They left the _Crown of Stars_ ablaze, wallowing deeper into every wave.

The _Jolly Roger_ had wounded to treat, damage to assess, and four dead of her own to be waked. By evening the mood had begun to lift. Foggy finished treating their wounded. A barrel was broached. Crispin unlimbered his fiddle. Two slow tunes later he started on a faster one, and the whole ship seemed to relax at once. The first jokes were macabre, but the laughter was real, and the release of tension. Everyone drank to each other and to the departed. With Killian's blessing, Theo set the _Crown_ 's paybox in the middle of the deck and fetched an ax. Four blows sent coins spilling across the boards.

All those winters she had spent stretching farthings until you could see through them—Milah scooped up a handful of coins and let them fall again, laughing. Some men were dead. She was alive. She didn't know any of the songs, but sang anyway.

Killian withdrew once the sun had set. Milah felt more alive than she ever had before, and more tired than she had been since childbirth, and a little bit drunk on both rum and the praise of her shipmates. She followed him, tapped on the cabin door, then opened it.

He glanced at the door with a frown, but that cleared when he saw her. He had his sleeves rolled up, his hair in spikes from running a hand through it. Papers covered the table, the contents of FitzHugh's desk and order packet.

“All well?” he asked.

“I think so. May I?”

He nodded. She closed the door behind her, then hesitated.

“Perhaps we ought to talk.” Killian leaned back against the table, arms crossed. He looked tired, that blazing moment of grief and anger gone to ashes.

Milah shook her head. “No. I understand.” She crossed the few steps between them. She wanted to say many things, but the burn of need took her voice away. One surprised breath went out of him before she pressed her lips against his. Fight for what you want. She twined her fingers through his hair. “I haven't changed my mind.”

“You quite sure about that, love?” His hands settled on her hips, drew her close.

“Yes.”

  
  


Some time later, out of nowhere, she chuckled.

“What's funny?”

“Just that I suppose I'm a properly fallen woman now. _Very_ properly.” She kissed his shoulder and tasted salt. The bed wasn't large; they lay tangled half by necessity. The lamp had guttered out, unnoticed at the time.

“Pleased to be of assistance. You were magnificent today.”

“I'm getting used to leaping into things, at any rate.” Ships, battles, beds. She ran her fingers up his arm, across his shoulder, down his back. She splayed her hand there to feel him breathing, the shift of his muscles. Was it appropriate to compare a man to his ship? Not bulky but well put together.

“If you don't mind my asking, how did a lass so fierce get yoked to a... well, a sheep?” He traced spirals over her hip.

“It's a small village. It's what you do.” She tried to remember a past without bitterness, its outline blurred by distance. “I couldn't stay at home forever. He and my father worked it all out between them. And I thought, well, at least he's kind, and not a drunkard. I could have my own household. One makes the best of it, right?”

“I suppose. I wouldn't know.”

“Why not? You haven't always been a pirate, I know that. You must have had some sort of prospects.”

“Distant ones if any. Never really gave it any thought.”

“Their loss.” She touched his mouth and felt him smile. “And now there's only this? I heard the story.”

“And wondered why?” He went silent for a long moment. “Let me ask this, then—who calls a king to account? Puts him on trial for his crimes? Yes, we were at war. Had our mission succeeded, everyone aboard this ship would have been complicit in a slaughter beyond imagining. My brother would have gladly died to put a stop to that. But he shouldn't have had to, not like that. What justice is there can make that right?” He sounded more weary than angry. “The king hasn't lost a tenth of what he ought to, but he will. If you read far enough between the lines, there may be a coup in the offing. Nothing to choose from among the candidates, I fear.” His hand ceased its motion across her body; she laid hers overtop it. “It's rotten right down to the core, love, the whole business. But as you say, one makes the best of it. And we were discussing you, I thought.”

“I suppose I didn't have a choice. Or at least, I didn't think I did. There was the war, and I thought that things would get better. That perhaps he might make something of himself. And then there was Bae. Babies are supposed to make women happy. I tried to be happy. But by the time he arrived, well, so had the news, and....” A laugh caught in her throat, surprised her with the threat of sudden tears. “It doesn't matter now.”

“No?”

“It's not that I wanted him to die. I shouldn't have said that. I wanted him to do the right thing. To _try_. And ever since it was like that. He would never even  try. At anything. Just the same, every single day. I couldn't....” She shook off the memory like the shreds of a long and unpleasant dream. The moon rose in silence and brought shimmering light through the windows at the stern. She felt wrung out in body and mind. The ship's sway had grown familiar, soothing. The noise from the deck continued. A few words caught Milah's ear and roused her back to wakefulness. “Is that song saying what I think it is?”

“Words of encouragement in this direction? I fear so. The singular drawback of this life is a certain lack of privacy. If it helps, I think it means they like you. You've more than proven yourself worth a place.”

“I can live with that.” She hesitated. “Should I go?”

“Not on my account.”

“I just thought you might like more of your bed for whatever's left of the watch.”

“No. You meet a lot of people in this life.” Killian brushed aside a lock of her hair. “I must confess I did not expect... you.”

She wasn't sure what to think of that, but she settled more comfortably between him and the curve of the hull. She had intended to ask something else, but before she could remember her question, she fell asleep.

  
  


Milah woke up so stiff she could barely move. “Ow.” She rolled over, realized that she was alone in the bed, and blinked.

“A fight will do that.” Killian glanced her way from the table. Pale morning light outlined the cabin's gilded scrollwork and brass fittings.

“You look fine.” She couldn't fathom how he had gotten up and dressed without waking her. Her clothes had been folded at the end of the bed.

“Rather more used to it, I think. You are nevertheless, I suspect, feeling less pain than most of the crew this morning.”

“Um.” Milah sat up with the blanket pulled around her. Leaping was all well and good, but there was the landing to consider. She had given no thought to this part.

“I could step out, if you like.”

“I don't mind.” Getting dressed ought not to feel more intimate than the reverse, even in the daylight. He didn't pretend she wasn't there, but he didn't stare either, just gave her the occasional glance. By the time she got herself sorted out, Milah had decided not to beat around the bush. “What happens now?”

“I believe you were arranging the terms of trade.”

Milah gave him a thoughtful look. He returned one of such perfect guilelessness that she laughed and asked, “Where did you learn to do that?” He didn't know any better than she did what to make of this. That didn't help, but at least she wasn't alone.

“It comes in handy on occasion. ”

She leaned on the back of the chair and looked at the map unfurled across the table. The back of his neck above his collar looked very kissable. Would that confuse things? She thought that it would, that it would be better to leave the night as a thing to itself. She kissed him anyway. “Where are we bound now?”

“Back to bed, if you do that.”

Tempting, sore or not. “Does duty beckon?”

“Alas, it insists. We'll make for the islands. There are ports that don't much mind who calls in there. We are, more or less, here,” he added, tapping the map, “having picked you up... here.”

“There's so much of it,” Milah said without meaning to, aware of how provincial she must sound. One thing to hear stories about distant lands, stories that started _far off to the south_ or _in a distant land_. Another thing to see them spread out in neatly labeled lines.

“Enough for a lifetime, at least.”

Was this where she belonged, in all of that? She wasn't sure how she would know.

The day passed slowly. There was the solemn business of the funerals, and of making sure the _Jolly Roger_ was fit to sail. Milah tended to her work and put up with some ribbing, but less grief than she expected from the rest of the crew. They were preoccupied by their hangovers, and most of them had been with the ship some years. They knew that Killian would do whatever he wanted to. As long as it didn't interfere with work, they had no ground to complain.

In defense of that work, Milah kept to her own bunk that night, though she didn't sleep much. Terms of trade indeed. One exchange to mutual satisfaction; what else? Bedeviled by second thoughts, imagined difficulties, and less than ideal winds, she hesitated. A week of uncertain glances passed between them before the first of the island cluster hove into view, and another day before they sighted their destination.

The city marched up the hillside, the buildings ever taller and grander, their white stone livened by countless banners, the streets teeming with people. In the distance Milah saw a single tall mountain, its steep upper reaches bare rock.

“What do you think?” Foggy asked.

“It's beautiful.” She wouldn't pretend not to be enthralled. Just the port was larger than her whole village, with over a dozen ships in dock. “How long do you suppose we'll stay?”

“No more than a couple of weeks, if we can manage it. Good town to do business in, but they don't like trouble. Longer we're here, the more likely we are to find it. Why? Something you want to do?”

“Wouldn't say no to a drink or six.” It occurred to her that she would have money now.

Foggy chuckled. “You might have noticed, most of the lads have a pretty clear set of priorities.”

“I did. Can't blame them for being human.” She did her best to keep her attention on her work rather than watch Killian, and succeeded so well that she jumped when he spoke to her.

“There are formalities that need attending to ashore. I'm afraid we'll be parting for a bit. Not for long.”

“I know how it works,” she said. “I'm newest, I'm on watch tonight. No shirking, right?”

“Indeed. I'll show you around tomorrow.”

“If you want to.”

“I think I would.” Killian cocked an eyebrow at her diffident tone.

“I suppose it depends what sort of business is afoot.” The same as the others would be after; the same as when she had met him? She ought not to expect anything, remembering Oliver's words—a few pleasant hours, and nothing more. But then why say it was up to her? She felt annoyed all over again by own uncertainty.

Killian shrugged. “The dreadfully dull kind you will thank me to spare you at future ports of call.” He looked her over with a thoughtful air. “Though the unexpected always provides an advantage when dueling with accountants. Next time.” He smiled and left. The crew straggled off to their own amusements.

Yet again off-balance, she didn't mind a chance to get used to the look of the place, so much larger than her imagination had painted. The hours of the afternoon passed slowly. Seabirds wheeled and argued in a fair sky dotted with clouds. The handful of others who had been left behind this time chafed to be away and enjoying themselves. For the first time in many days she felt herself a stranger among them.

Milah listened to the accents of the people passing up and down the docks, saw their curious glances at the _Jolly Roger._ She wondered about them in turn—who they were, where they had been, what business brought them. The shops and trading offices near the waterfront closed their shutters and locked their doors at sunset; the taverns and whorehouses opened up. The other ships in dock lay dark and quiet as their own, while the noise ashore grew steadily. 

A far cry from shearing sheep.

“Who goes there?” she asked of the approaching shadow before she recognized his walk.

“Very proper,” Killian said. “Well done.”

“Captain. Didn't expect you back this soon.” To her surprise, he didn't even appear to be drunk.

“I did say it would be quick. They'll take our money, but would prefer we didn't stay. Repairs will be performed expeditiously.”

“That's good.”

“I thought perhaps you were bored. Also, I brought you something.”

“Really. I haven't gotten you anything.”

“Other than possibly saving my life the other day?” He frowned at her expression or her noncommittal tone, took her arm and drew her toward the stern, out of the easy view of passersby. “Don't noise it about, love, but I don't always _intend_ to be a nuisance. You are welcome in whatever capacity you elect. Do you want to stay or not?”

“I signed on, didn't I?”

“Putting that aside for the moment. Do you want to?”

“I do. I just... don't quite know what I'm about, I suppose. It's all seemed too easy.” She looked at him, at the ship, at the lights stretching up the hillside, the stars that had different names here.

Killian gave her a quizzical look. “Sheep farming must be a far more dangerous business than I had realized.”

“Not that, just... the way things seem to have fallen. With all of this. With you.” She hesitated, but he didn't say anything. “Life doesn't happen that way. At least, it never has before.” Milah leaned on the aft rail and folded her arms.

“For myself, I am disinclined to spurn the hand of Providence in its rare benevolent moods. I never looked for this. I would like for you to stay.”

She bit her lip.

“While you think about it.” He handed her the parcel and settled next to her, hands braced on the rail at his sides.

She unwrapped the plain cloth to find a heavy leather belt. “What's this for?”

“If you're going to go around with a sword, you'll need it. And you've got one, whatever you decide to do with it. May I?”

“Yes.” She straightened up and let him circle her waist with it to check the fit. “Thank you. I think I like it.”

“You should wear nothing but pearls and sea-foam. Your hair would only improve their beauty.”

“You do talk a lot of nonsense.” She smiled as she said it.

“True. Rubies would also suit. Does any of it please you?” He hadn't moved his hands from her waist, and he leaned in closer as he spoke.

“I've laughed more in the past two weeks than in the past two years.” Perhaps that was all she needed to know. She let her hand find the back of his neck. Years she had spent, watching the gulf grow between all that she wanted and all that she would ever have. “Yes. Yes, I am pleased. I thought I was leaving home, not finding one.” His lips brushed the side of her neck. “I'm supposed to be on watch, Captain.”

“The other half dozen on board can make sure no one steals my ship in the next hour. We're not likely to have any trouble for a few days at least.”

“Only an hour?” She leaned into him. “Is that negotiable?”

“Come and find out.”

  
  


The two of them walked through the city in the afternoon. Fine houses, gardens, and the mountain looming over all under a brilliant clear sky—she drank them in with shining eyes.

“I want to find some charcoal. And better paper. And something else to wear.”

“Whatever pleases you. Truly,” Killian added with a grin when she looked suspicious. “Happiness suits you.”

As they followed her pleasant errand, Milah's glance found a group of children—running errands of their own, or making mischief. Her mood did not darken so much as grow wistful, like thin clouds passing over the sun.

“You miss him,” Killian said.

“Sometimes. You don't have any children?”

“Not that anyone's ever mentioned.”

They walked in silence for a while longer. “I had to leave, and I am happy, now.” She considered that with astonishment. “But I shouldn't have done it like that. I should have said something. I do miss him. Just him.”

Killian didn't say anything, and she saw no reason to pursue the subject, especially once she spotted a stationer's shop. Jewels could wait; the only problem was in not buying out the man's entire stock of paper against the weeks they would be at sea.

“I could get used to this,” she decided as they set off again.

“I'm glad to hear you say so.” He paused and looked down at the harbor; they had climbed quite a distance in their exploration. “A ship is no place for a lad that young.”

“Of course not.” Milah looked at him in surprise. The rueful certainty in his expression combined with his tentative tone to give her pause. “Not so young, no, but...?”

“They do grow up, or so I understand.”

For a moment she couldn't breathe. “I think he would like this.” A quiet boy, he always had been, but a steady one and observant.

“No reason we couldn't swing back to that part of the world and see where things stand.”

“Let's do that.” Milah grinned and kissed him right in the middle of the street. “Yes. Yes, I'll stay.”

  
  


In the first year, a new deckhand stole her jewelry and ran off—not far enough, as it turned out. Milah pushed him off the plank herself.

In the third year, she stood at the wheel, watching the sky and the waves. Killian left off watching to come and stand behind her, his hands warm overtop hers. She still got a warm rush from the tattoo on his forearm.

“Will you stay?” he asked.

Milah gave him a startled glance—they were surrounded by miles of open sea, she wasn't about to go anywhere—and then realized what he really wanted to know. Utterly content, she said, “Yes.”

In the fifth year, word came that the king in that far-off land had died, victim of an assassin within his court. Killian stayed drunk for a week.

“What shall we do now?” Milah asked once she thought she might get a sensible answer.

“I don't see any reason to change course.”

“Nor I.”

In the eighth year, they turned the ship north, toward the forested shores she had once called home.

Her heart lay exposed, bright and beating in her husband's hand. Shock and pain took the strength from her legs. She felt Killian's arms around her, easing her down to the deck, and looked up at his stricken expression.

 _I love you._ Blue, and then night without stars.

*

Foggy climbed up on deck and took three deep breaths. Cauterizing wounds left a stink. He looked at the gaggle of worried faces and shrugged. “As clean a cut as I could have asked for. I wager he'll live. Dosed to the gills with poppy right now.” He saw some of the sailors relax, others exchange uncertain glances. The crew still had decisions to make. Someone had drawn a sheet over Milah's body. “Anyone's thinking of jumping ship, I suggest you do it before he comes to, and you'd better run far. Not going to be any mercy in these parts.”


End file.
